In The Face Of Death (9 page)

Baron deStoeckl lit a lean Russian cigarette and regarded Madelaine thoughtfully across the expanse of his front sitting room. “You are not often in the habit of making morning calls, Madame, or in seeking confidential interviews,” he said in French, and added, “Forgive my ill-habit. Most of the Americans think my smoking tastes are too effete, both in my liking for cigarettes instead of cigars, and my smoking in the presence of ladies, but I confess I would like to feel at home in my own flat.” The chamber was a testament to the international prosperity of San Francisco: the carpets on the floor were from China, the samovar on the side table was glossy Russian brass. Embossed Dutch bricks formed the fireplace and mantel. Four velvet-upholstered chairs and an Italian divan were provided for guests; Baron deStoeckl himself had an over-stuffed Turkish chair with a flexible frame covered in tooled leather, by far the most comfortable article of furniture in the room.

“You may blow a cloud if it pleases you,” said Madelaine, indicating the cigarette. “You do not offend me.” She spread her skirts over the end of the divan.

“I thought not, you are not easily offended. Though I notice you have taken care to avoid offending the sensibilities of the Americans. Your housekeeper is with you, isn’t she?” the Baron said with a favorable nod.

“She is, and it is very good of your cook to entertain her while we talk,” said Madelaine in her most cordial manner.

“It is, isn’t it. Otherwise she might overhear our conversation, which would be inconvenient for both of us, I suspect.” His shrewd eyes twinkled as he made this remark. He studied her for a short while, making no apology for his scrutiny. “I also suspect you are here about our mutual American friend.”

“Sherman,” said Madelaine. “Yes. I must seek your advice, I fear.”

“I am yours to command in any capacity you like,” said deStoeckl gallantly. “Permit me to tell you that I can find it in my heart to envy William.”

“That is very kind of you, Baron,” said Madelaine, trying not to be awkward. “It is a delicate problem, and I would not broach it with you if I were able to convince him of the need of discussing it.”

“Ah,” said deStoeckl with a knowing nod. “I expected something of the sort. You want to know about his wife.”

Madelaine indicated agreement, and hurried into her questions before she could convince herself not to ask. “Yes. I want to know about her. I am aware that I have no claim on any information, but I seek it for his sake as well as my own. So if you will, tell me: why has she been away for so long, and why has she left two of her children here with their father?”

DeStoeckl got to his feet and strode the length of his sitting room, his cigarette held between his thumb and first finger. As he spoke, he gesticulated with it for emphasis, leaving little puffs of white smoke in the air. “Very well. I will tell you what I think, with the proviso that this is only my opinion, and I may be in error, for of all those concerned, I know only William as a friend, not his wife. I think she left the children as a pledge of her own return, her promise that she is not leaving him forever. That, and I suspect it may be that she wishes to remain the child of her parents while she is with them, which she could not easily do with three youngsters of her own in tow. She is most profoundly devoted to her father.”

“Profoundly devoted,” Madelaine repeated, then asked, “What does she think of her husband, do you know?”

“She is deeply fond of him,” said the Baron thoughtfully. “Or so it has appeared to me.”

“Fond? Not loving?” asked Madelaine.

“Not with passion, no. But I would not expect it of her.” He paced back toward the fireplace.

“Why not?” Madelaine persisted, watching his erratic progress about the room. “Is there anything in her nature that would turn her against him as her husband?”

“Not obviously, no.” He drew on his cigarette once again, and went on, “Well, they were raised together, from the time her family took him in. As I recall, he was eight when that occurred. So he is more brother to her than lover,” said deStoeckl reasonably. “And it has seemed to me that she is not . . . comfortable with the act of love, as many women of quality are not. She suffers from headaches and boils which cause her to avoid long embraces, or so I have heard; William was bitter when she left and said things. . . .”

“They have three children,” Madelaine reminded him.

“I didn’t say she does not like having a family, only that the process of getting children is not enjoyable to her,” deStoeckl said. “William blames it on her religion.”

“He blames everything on religion,” said Madelaine quietly. “He says it is the root of war and punitive law, because it forbids reason.”

“Who can dispute that?” asked the Baron, showing no signs of shock.

“Those of abiding faith,” Madelaine said, and added, “though he would say that abiding faith is only the result of fear.”

“So he would. And he and his wife would argue.” Baron deStoeckl nodded twice. “I have seen it happen more than once.”

“Tell me what she is like, how she conducts herself,” said Madelaine. “He will not say much about her except to tell me that his dedication to his marriage is unbreakable.”

“Does that trouble you, Madame? His marriage?” asked the Russian, his face growing sharp with his demand as he stubbed out his cigarette. “Given his opposition to religion?”

“Only in that I do not know why he is so determined to . . . to keep to a marriage which may not be happy for either of them, since religion is not his reason for it. Oh, not that I wish to be the cause of the marriage ending. Quite the reverse in fact. It would be extremely difficult to see him through any failure, let alone one so important to him as his marriage. If he held me responsible for the end of the marriage, it would be intolerable.” This was more bluntly put than she wished it to be, and she did her best to modify the severity of her observation. “I do not presume to know the whole of it. I realize I am not privy to more than one side of the tale, and at a time when his discontent may be higher than it ordinarily is.”

“William has a strong sense of duty, Madame, and order.” Baron deStoeckl stood still behind the divan where Madelaine sat. He looked at her dark hair as if to penetrate her thoughts. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I do not wish to add to his distress when I leave,” said Madelaine, turning to look up at the Baron. “Which will be toward the end of October if Ellen Sherman does not come back to San Francisco before then. If she returns, I will not remain in San Francisco, but will depart at once. I have already made the necessary arrangements and can put them into effect in two days.” She regarded him seriously. “It would make things unbearably uncomfortable for him to have both of us here at the same time.”

“And for you?” inquired deStoeckl astutely.

“I would not like to add to his unsettled state, which my remaining here would surely do,” she said, with such candor that deStoeckl could not help but be impressed. “It would not benefit me, or him.”

“Dear me. Are you always so noble of heart, Madame?” There was no sting in the question, no hint of condemnation for bad behavior on her part.

“I am not noble of heart, Baron; I love him. And no matter what happens between us, nothing will change it; I will love him until . . . I die.” She said this matter-of-factly, without any dramatic flourish, and for that reason alone, deStoeckl believed her.

“How certain we are when we are young,” murmured the Baron, and made his way back to his own chair.

“This is not the certainty of youth, Baron, but the teaching of experience,” said Madelaine with asperity. “I know my face is youthful, but I am not.”

“So William has hinted,” said deStoeckl.

“What has he said?” asked Madelaine, in spite of her intention not to.

DeStoeckl gave a cat-like smile. “Only that you were more fascinating than any girl could be; he attributes this to your love of study, among other things, including that you are French and have traveled abroad extensively.” He leaned forward. “I have given him my word to reveal nothing about his dealings with you, and I will not, not even to you, Madame.”

She nodded. “I accept that, and thank you for it,” she told him, wondering how much Sherman had confided in his Russian friend. “I hope you will stand by him when I am not here; he will need to confide in you, I think.”

“No doubt he will want to. I hope he will do so in the event. Little as he may suppose it now.” The Baron folded his hands in his lap, and spoke to the far corner of the room to avoid looking at Madelaine. “For all he claims he is prepared for your leaving, he will miss you more than he realizes when you are gone.”

“If he will not resent his missing me, so much the better,” said Madelaine, “for I will miss him as I would miss life itself.”

“But you will leave, nonetheless?” deStoeckl challenged her politely.

“Yes. It would be too painful to have him come to distrust or hate me, for he would be likely to suffer from dividing his loyalty. And he would come to that, if he felt he had to choose between his family and me. It would be like him to think he had to make such a choice.” She got up from the divan. “You have been very generous, Baron, for the time you have spared me.”

“Nothing more?” asked deStoeckl. “You have no other questions regarding my friend William?”

“Not at the moment,” said Madelaine.

“Then permit me to offer you a few observations of my own,” said the Baron, motioning her back to the divan, and scowling with the intensity of his thoughts. “Believe me that I make this suggestion from friendship for you and William, with no other motive than—”

“Well enough,” said Madelaine, interrupting him. “I absolve you from ulterior motives, Baron. Say what you want me to hear.” She looked over at him, her manner calm and self-possessed.

He lit another cigarette and looked up into the smoke as if he might find answers there. “I think one of the reasons William came here, so far from Ohio, was to try to break the hold that the Ewings have on him and his wife. I think he hoped to show himself capable of being his own man, without need of Ewing sponsorship in the world, which saved him when his father died, and which has nagged him ever since, gratitude often being the most unbearable burden of all. And I think Ellen is afraid of what would happen, should William succeed in winning free of her father’s influence.” He regarded Madelaine narrowly as he rose and strode around the end of the divan to face her. “You are something he never anticipated in his well-ordered plans, something he desires and dreads. You are freedom from the burden he has carried. You offer release from many obligations, and he is drawn to you for that as much as he is drawn to you for passion. But with you he could never fully vindicate his . . . honor. He would never truly be free of the spectre of Thomas Ewing, if he cannot prove himself in his marriage.” He lowered his gaze. “I do not wish to offend you, Madame, but you came to me. . . .”

“So I did,” said Madelaine, no trace of embarrassment in her demeanor. “I am not offended. And I am grateful for your comments.”

“They cannot be entirely welcome,” said the Baron diffidently.

“No, they are not, but I thank you for them nonetheless,” said Madelaine. “Without them, I would be less able to prepare.”

“I hope you feel so in time to come,” said deStoeckl. “For I have never been more your friend than now.”

“I realize that,” said Madelaine. “And I am grateful.” She cocked her head to the side. “Anything more, Baron?”

“Only that I think you are much too good for him,” said deStoeckl directly.

“That’s not an issue,” Madelaine told him, starting to rise.

DeStoeckl came to her side and took her hand. “He is a most fortunate man, though he may not know it.”

“You are most kind, Baron, both to advise me and to compliment me so,” she said in her best social form.

“It is always a pleasure to have your company, Madame,” said the Baron, going to open the pocket-door for her. “With your permission, I will mention your visit to William when I see him later today, though I will keep your confidence as to our conversation. I don’t want him to learn of this visit from other sources. Much as he would deny it, he would be jealous if he thought we met clandestinely.”

“Do as you think best, Baron. I have confidence in your good sense, and your tact,” she responded as she reached for her short cape, letting him settle it on her shoulders before she looked for her hat, which lay on a table in the entry hall. She fixed it in place with two long pins and smiled at her host, assuring him once more, “It was good of you to talk with me.”

“My pleasure, Madame,” he said, bowing. Then he rang for his manservant and instructed him to bring Madelaine’s housekeeper from the kitchen. “Tell her Madame de Montalia has finished her business with me.”

“Very nicely done,” Madelaine approved. As they waited for Olga, Madelaine added, “I doubt he’ll tell me when his wife is planning to return; it would be too much like a conspiracy between us. If you hear anything
.
. . .”

“I will send you word of it at once,” deStoeckl finished for her, and raised her hand to his lips.

Olga appeared at the rear of the corridor, adjusting her shawl around her shoulders. “The cook here has shown me an excellent dish,” she said in her accented English. “I will prepare it for your next guests, Madame.” She had recently given up all attempts at cooking for her employer, and reserved her skills for those few occasions when Madelaine entertained.

“How good of you, Olga,” said Madelaine, also in English. “Thank you once again, Baron. I appreciate all your advice.”

“I am yours to command, Madame de Montalia,” he assured her as he opened the door for her.

San Francisco, 19 August, 1855

There have been a number of reviews of the garrison. General Hitchcock organized them, or so I understand, as a way of reminding the people of the city that order will be kept, no matter what excitement may seize the populace. These have been greeted with enthusiasm. Even Henry Haight, who is a very bitter man these days, has said he approves of these elegant shows of force, and cheers with the rest when the soldiers ride by. Tecumseh watches these displays with his military friends, and longs to be in uniform once again himself. He has been promoting the idea of a state militia as the means of policing this city, and a few of the others where mobs have taken over the control of the streets and the courts.